


Exist stage left

by CravenWyvern



Series: DS Extras [48]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Body Horror, Dreams, Gen, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-12-24 08:08:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21096197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern
Summary: 'All the world‘s a stage, and all the men and women merely players. They have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts.'A scientist does not find answers in his dreams.





	1. Exit, pursued by a bear

The Constant had a way with dreams, nightmares. Wilson was particularly sure of that.

He couldn’t remember those which he had before coming here, living in that small shack far from the outskirts of town, hidden away on the mountain side. Hell, the man hardly remembered what his bed had looked like, not to mention what it was like to sleep upon it. The memories of the place before this one were faded, dull, dusty as he slowly but surely stopped revisiting them.

There was no point to that leisure, when he had more pressing matters to focus upon. The act of survival here was far more important than scratching his brain for bits and pieces of useless, unimportant memory. What use to him was the remembrance of the stairs to and from the first and second floors, the knowledge of the fourth steps creaking squeal and that the seventh bent under his weight every time, a constant reminder that it needed to be fixed, when at that exact moment something such as a monstrous hound or mob of oversized frogs was currently at his heels?

Or of the cobwebs hanging in the corners at the front door, a wind to brush and swing the spiders every time he so much as peeked the door open, big black arachnids and thin, long yellowed weavers, the skitter of beetles and roaches as they scurried about the cabinets of the kitchen, flies buzzing into slamming against the glass windows, when the pressing issue of hulking boars turned hairy abominations, sniffing their way to his hiding place, was much too important to even dwell upon.

Even the briefest of flashes, such as when full moon rose and mushrooms burst into overdrive, scrawled and shot hight to the air, massive fungal trees, and the sporing red ones, catching a stinging sensation to his throat, itching his skin and infesting his clothing, sent the mild swirled image of damp tiles and frayed towels, cracked porcelain, into his dizzy head. But that didn’t matter much, once those same spores started to eat through his very skin, sizzling as the webbing of fungi burst up and down his arms, his neck, coughing blood before the trees foul smelling stalks and crawled roots.

As his memories of before the Constant faded, Wilsons conscious mind became more preoccupied with the steps of survival, and very little else. The dreams of past times were gone now, yet every time he even so much as entertained the thought of sleep, of peaceful rest, even for a few short hours, this terrible place made sure to fill in that which it could not reach when he was awake.

***

Wilson dreamed of a forest, more times than not. Perhaps his waking struggle crept its way into his dream state, but this place was...different from what he was used to.

It was far darker, the trees far larger, thicker, underbrush crowned with thorns that seemed to move, the faintest of shifting in his peripheral vision, and he'd find himself standing there in the middle of it all, silent and still. Almost empty, even, but then Wilson would start off walking, farther inwards, deeper. The opening of a path, flattened ground rung with weeds and grasses, though as he started to pass through the trees it became more like an animal track, faint, stumbling over rugged hills and sliding down in a haphazard way, not quite knowing where he was or where he was going yet still taking each step forward.

It wasn't quite that something was calling him. No sound, no animal shifting, not even the barest of breezes, yet the shadows only grew, dark holes in the world hidden in underbrush and behind the trees massive trunks, thick entwining roots that crossed his path, and yet there was an insistent urge to keep up the trek.

The dream did not quite give off that it was, in fact, a dream, but Wilson felt lucid. Everytime he tried to look up, to the skies, the tree branches seemed to curl inward and the leaves blocked out everything, light and dark, night and day.

His sense of touch was nonexistent, brushing ferns and feeling nothing, nothing at all but the barest of pressure, yet it was easy to know this was not reality.

Wilson wiggled his hands, everytime, and scowled down to his unmarked fingers, wrist and the skin of his arms. No bone talons greeted him, and he'd rub his thumb and index finger together, completely normal skin, and wonder.

But soon the forest grew darker, somber, and yet even this drawn he could still see enough to where he'd place his feet. The trees bark twisted, some almost faces, carved round eyes and mouths, beards and jagged fangs, furrowed eyebrows, wrinkles, the odd smooth face of youth, and the path degenerated into nothing, leaving him to stumble forward. 

The dream had left him lost in the very beginning, yet somehow he was even worse off now.

Wilson would almost, almost wonder if it could get any worse than this, mud sticking to his shoes and hands, bits of foliage caught in his hair, the sensation there yet not.

And then there would be a rumble.

The dream did not translate his instinctive reaction fast enough, almost falling backwards as the earth shifted, the trees barely groaning, so deeply ingrained into the ground, and then there was a harsh burst of wind, exhaled breath washing over him, in between the trees before the inhale sucked the air back.

And Wilson would stare up, up almost to reach the top branches of the too massive trees, and the giant ahead of him would rumble its way on. It's great furry back was coated in snow, piles slipping off as its muscles moved, its antlers speckled in frosted ice. Each breath was warmed, humid, but he couldn't smell it, only watch in frozen almost terror, almost awe, as the beasts antlers dragged against the top branches, leaves and snowflakes falling in its wake, and yet-

It wasn't quite what he knew it should be.

One massive eye, pale, calloused, blurred over and gummed as if in death, slid down to stare at him for the briefest of moments, and then its great head shifted and turned and dipped, to lower down towards him, more handfuls of snow sliding down its snout. Its nostrils flared, jaw hanging slack, grasses and brush hanging in drooly slime in the corner of its lips, and Wilson would stare up at the one eyed beast, faced with its massive, bowing form.

On the other side of its skull, previously turned away from him, was the gaping emptiness of an eye socket, nerves and tendons trailing out, the faintest withering of maggots, and another exhaled breath washed over him. Now, so close, and he could see its very skin, bristled fur ragged and mangled, the coating of snow and ice, the faintest of wiggling from underneath. At its hooves the dropped leaves thronged around in the grasses and ferns, bluing and crackling as mist rose from its touch, frost creeping out in snowflake designs, and yet worms and maggots and beetles fell from its great heaving chest, underbelly, spreading about the ground in the mad scurry of insects in the toil to reach its flesh before the ice caught them first.

The deer stared down at him with its one eye, rotten, massive, every exhale warm and inhale cold, the bugs at its feet crawling back up its cracked hooves to leave trails through the powder snow drifting off it, and Wilson would stare back, frozen stiff in its gaze.

And then its ears would flick, twitch, the scuttle of sound nearby, and its massive head would turn away, rise up on its rotting neck, fur clinging in cloudy clumps, ice sparkling, and it would raise its mouth and the screaming, bungling call that issued from it made him clap his all too human hands to his ears and stumble back, away, getting a tree trunk in between himself and the giant monstrosity. There was no answer to its ringing warble, yet the earth shook and rumbled under his feet as it started to move, the echo of its call still sweeping the air, and Wilson peeped around the tree, tense, and watched it drag its sodden hooves forward, grooves in the earth filling with falling bugs, worms, withering frantically before stilling just as quickly, going grey and white in death as ice coated the way behind it.

The giant moved on, leaving behind its mark, and Wilson would shiver in its wake, shake his head with a deep, shaky breath, and start off in the opposite direction.

He had the distinct feeling he's seen it before, many times, but...not like this. Never so new.

The forest carried on, ever growing, deepening, and now the atmosphere changed. Webbing coated over ferns, crisscrossed massive tree trunks, the dark on the outskirts of his vaguest of paths, and Wilson avoided them to the best of his abilities. Flashes, memory of spiders rose in his mind, but in this dream place all he had to think of were small things, black and brown jumping spiders, harvester men with long spindly legs.

But even with such innocent thoughts in mind it was more instinctive, to skirt around the thick webbing plastered here and there. Empty and soundless as it was, not even a breeze to grace this darkened place, it felt as if heavy foreboding was starting to rise in his chest, flood his brain in the buzzing static fog of dream shifting.

There was a path, animal and cloven footprints bunched together, spread with hound feet and large three toed claws and smattered with rabbit hops, and now his own shoes added to the mixture. For some reason, passing through and climbing sloped hills, around trees and huge brushing ferns, undergrowth, Wilson almost felt as if he kept catching sight of his own footprints up ahead, on the outskirts, lonely pairs.

Finally the brushes seemed to lessen, the great trunks of the trees decreasing in size, scuffed holes here and there about the path, scratched furrows as more and more of the footprints faded away. Soon enough the path was only padded down earth, only the faintest of impressions and nothing more, and every breath seemed to increase the pressure in his chest. It seemed as if he was now going up, angling a bit into open spaces more sparse than before.

The slope eased up, he hadn't even noticed it had become almost a climb now, dark crumbling earth with this twisting path, stones prodding up from the dirt here and there, almost markers besides the moss and weeds growing over them, hiding many from view, but now it has leveled. The trees rose tall here, thinner, and it was not the top of this sudden mountain, no, he could see farther ahead there was more, rising ever higher, but Wilsons feet took him parallel now. It seemed as if his path led elsewhere.

Ferns now, not as many bushes or twiggy brush, thick leafed things, and the air grew thicker, humid, every breath heavy in his chest, harder to draw upon. It was slower going now, as the path suddenly grew sluggish, mud sucking at his feet, a sickly grey green tinge to the air, the trees bowing and trunks scrawled over with moss and algae, the faint bone white of odd mushrooms. The land was flat, a plateau almost, and now Wilson stumbled forward, the sodden ferns dampening his trousers, mud coating his shoes, a warm cold dampness that sent goosebumps up his arms, an odd feeling that did not quite translate past his wrists.

And then there was a lake.

His lucidity made him dizzy, staring at where there had once been nothing but now was there, a darkened body of water, swirled at the edges with mud and thickened algae, withered stalks of weeds rising from the mud, a few leafless trees, spiked and distorted into almost painful looking shapes, scattered all about, and now he could see the sky.

Grey, foggy, a moody cloud cover that rolled slow, almost completely still, and the mud thickened about his shoes, a slow sinking motion, sticking and bubbling audibly enough. To have him curl his hands to fists, but before he could fight his way backwards to more stable ground there was movement in the distance.

The silent lakes surface ripples, little waves from afar, reflective and murky in the depths, the faint visage of his own face in the waters before that, too, peeled apart, and the water seemed to move, swell ever so slightly. There was a noise, a low ambience, incomprehensible to his ears, and so Wilson looked up, away from the rising tide, the water just now lapping at his shoes, filling in with the mud, and there was a figure.

A disjointed, odd one, something dark, far away, but it was moving, smooth and steady. In only a few heavy, thick breaths, it was suddenly there, looming, water splashing about its risen sides.

It was still dark, cloud cover becoming even more so, the faint echo of thunder, but Wilson suddenly knew, without a doubt, that there was more of it, hidden under that water.

It was a neck, thin, bony, and yet layered with muck, sticking feathers sloped with mud and ferns and withered roots, a mass of a stalk that rose high, far above him, and now this close he could feel the wash of a wind, wheezed silently, thin, cold. His gaze rose upwards, followed the disjointed, broken path of its neck, the near impossible to see breathing, faint, the flutter of small, sticky feathers, and now he met the eyes staring blankly upon him.

Much like the previous monstrosity, they were white coated, a film of mucus and mud, thick in the corners, and yet the faint outline of a pupil stared back at him, shiveringly still. Its beak laid open, thick vines of ferns and water kelp and rotting weeds trailing from its choked gape, stuffed almost, the whistling silent breathe easing from the mass, the mud caked to its face sloughing off in wet chunks to plop into the waters with loud, piercing sound, and it took a moment, a muffled moment, to recognize the cold that had risen to his ankles, almost to his knees.

The lake waters were rising, and the thing loomed down over him, antlers draped with even more of the rotting wet flora, bloated neck thick with muck, and now this close he could feel its sickly breathe, a fresh cold different from the ice of before as something wet fell upon his cheek.

Rainfall, he vaguely realized. The faint sound grew all about him, and even dampening his hair Wilson did not feel the telltale signs of becoming sodden. His clothing grew damp, but the rain thundering down did not drench him as it seemed to mean to. His hair did not slick to his head, and it was only faint, the fell of the rain.

A crack of thunder overhead, the flash of lightning that his awake self would have leapt away from in panicked frenzy, and suddenly there was movement about the creatures great stocky neck. As the water lapped at his ankles in waves, dull yellow colors bobbed in the lake about the giant, twisting and turning and falling upon each other, beady wide eyes and tiny fuzzy antlers. Too young for feathers, as they darted about, and Wilson realized slowly that the giant monster itself was not looking upon him at all.

Down its gaze was, past him, and it heaved slow, wet breathes through the choked remains of its throat, kelp and sticky swamp flora slicked with mud that did not even blemish the chicks underneath.

Slowly, with its attention drawn elsewhere, Wilson started to back away. The water swished about his feet, mud sucking at his shoes, but he did not feel wet, nor drowned as rain continued to fall.

The ghastly swamp trees covered his escape, spiked things that couldn't hide the silhouette of the great giant and its offspring, but as he fought the muds pull ever so slowly the ground started to slope more solidly. A path, behind him, and with one last long stare, watching the giant as it turned its mud caked head, the racing about of its offspring keeping its focus, Wilson finally turned himself about and started off, away, at a brisk pace.

The rain thundered down for a few minutes more, splashing in puddles that grew the swamps presence, but here and there great shriveled pines rose up, speckled and then growing thick as the ground became more solid than mud, soil damp and heavy.

Passing through the trees, now a dirt path leading him onwards, the rain suddenly stopped with a few last drifting droplets. His feet continued ever forward, taking him along, and Wilson mildly mulled over the great bird like giant as he walked on, leaving it and its brood behind.

This path led through a section of the forest, thinner, twiggier, great boulders strewn with webbed gold veins, and then the dirt and grass sloped, curved as rock rose, and the ditch he had been treading fell more into a gully, drifting deeper. Up above the treetops fell away, open sky devoid of the clouds of the swamp, blue and wirled dull yet bright at the same time. No sun was visible, no source of light, and Wilson continued on as his path led him down a ravine.

Dark scraggy grasses here, weeds piled up among fallen rock and crumbled stone, hints of gold and nitre threaded throughout the walls, and he had to watch his step, tripping or kicking up dusty clouds of rock. This path did not look as well tread, and the shadows only grew the deeper he went.

And then the stone walls opened up, and Wilson realized he was in a canyon.

It was massive, rock walls shrouded in shadow, faint sunlight reaching in swathes of pools, and the weeds were even less here. To his right was the faint impression of a long gone stream, underground water source, sandy dry now. His path was still there, the marks of a few rock towers, posts made long ago to lead the path forward, and on Wilson walked.

Eventually even this ended, and the crumbling walls fell low as he passed by, less green growth and more yellow, dense rock shards and little else as scenery. Even when he rose up, the path leading a twisting trail upwards, the flatter land above was just as desolate.

A desert spanned ahead, spotted cacti and jagged boulders, packed dry earth that descended into sand dunes that rose and drifted further and further away. When Wilson glanced behind him, to where the canyon dipped down, he could see that a forest followed its edges, atop the cliffs. The trees ended where desert began, some stubborn husks covered with sand, and after a moment he turned away from the forests and pressed onwards, following this dirt packed path and its guiding rock markers.

The further he traveled, the more distance between the markers. Some have tipped, fallen rock towers, and scraggy brush rose about with the cacti, old and dry and thorned. 

His dream self felt no heat, yet the light blazed and he looked upwards, spotting no sun in the sky. It was as blank as ever, as empty and desolate, and Wilson hesitated a moment on his path. 

If he raised a hand and squinted, he could see mountains in the distance, faint impressions of them. His path was leading him in that direction.

Just before he could start walking again, resigned in this empty expanse to ever continue onwards, there was a new sound.

It was low, buzzing, and for a moment Wilson listened, dream fog making him confused and slow.

The noise was growing louder.

Even as slowed down as he was Wilson felt the flash of the past two giant abominations, and scrambled about for a place to hide.

A low dune, cacti crowded together and thick dead brush, and he dived down in them, the prick of spines and thorns not even rising to his mind as he looked to the skies.

In the distance a great shadow was forming.

It moved fast and yet slow, as if lagging behind itself as it streaked through the air, and only for a split second did Wilson get his gaze to see it in full as it blazed overhead.

Yellows, reds, the brightest of rolling greens, a hundred wingbeats of shimmering glass and too many criss crossed eyes, bulbous huge and hanging and bunched in clusters, a dragging long tongue that hung in the air coated in fine ash-

And then it was gone, speeding away overhead, the whipping of the air and winds shaking loose a few of the brush and creating tumbleweeds to travel on. The massive back of it shined in the sunlight, gleaming green before splashing crimson and fiery oranges, and on the giant flew, off through the blue clear sky.

Wilson watched it go from his prickly hideyhole, staring as the dream fog fell upon him once more. Slowly getting to his feet, absentmindedly brushing off thorns and spines that had gotten caught in his clothing, only bright spots of feeling from the ones pulled from his skin, Wilson watched that dark dot of a massive beast slowly, ever so slowly, fade into nothing. The winds behind it whirled ash in the air, the faint hint of heated charcoal, and Wilson found himself looking about as ash fell around him. He caught some in his hands, staining his fingers when he experimentally rubbed the powder about.

As the last residue of the giants approach faded, Wilson turned himself back onto his path.

The faint lucidity was dissipating now, but it did give him pause when he turned to see a much smaller desert before him. His path led through rockier ground, the sand drifting less and less, and now it was more grasses than cacti, leading upwards. Now trees rose, weak things giving way to actual pine, speckled with birch.

The desert drifted behind him, only a last look back, before fading entirely away.

Up ahead, when he raised his gaze from starting at the dust and yellowed grass underfoot, the trees were certainly raising, ground rolling, rising, bushes void of berries growing in clusters as his little path grew bigger and wider and almost more compact.

And then there was scuffing, low rumbling through the dry dirt, the rough groans and creaking as thinner, younger trees were pushed, brushed aside by something much, much larger.

Wilson froze, two trees at either side of him, white barked and crowned with warmer colors, a change from thick old pine, and the berry bushes surrounding him were plucked clean, the gouged holes in the earth reminding him more and more of something, the dream fog wrapping its way into forgetfulness before-

There was a loud, resounding crack, the dull grind of noise, and then, up ahead at the treeline, a mixture of a few pines and red and yellow hued white barked trees, more and more diversity in twiggy towers and flora he was still so very unfamiliar with, up ahead as one such tree tipped and swayed and finally dropped down to the forest floor, the faint shadow, impression of something big rolling just behind it, and then he was crouching down in the bushes, one unmarked hand on the trees white, eye speckled bark, and he stared as something monstrous moved.

Up, above the tops of the trees, bristled fur and hide rolling with weighted fat and muscle, the heaved breath a powered wind just above him, above his tree, enough to send leaves scattering down in twisted arcs, and even from here its massive shadow stretched over him, covered the darkening evening sun and its steady demise.

Another inhale, exhale, its body swelling and then expelling the air in it, moving in paths he knew no biology of, and Wilson watched as the thing akin to a badger balanced itself on its back feet, massive paws and curled thick claws hung limp at its sides, pulled close to its front. Its huge skull was big, bigger than anything he could possibly imagine, silhouette outlined with the suns golden glow, and he had to squint to see its eyes, pale massive orbs flashing, the flick of its round ears and bristling fur over its neck and shoulders.

But there was more to it than fur, more than that, enough to have his mouth drop open as, for a sheer moment, the dream almost dropped him into lucidity as the absolute absurdity hit him.

Upon the giants shoulders, back, what he could see in the blinding sun's rays and covering the rest with the tree line, was the knitted fabric and blue jeaned cloth of a sweater and overalls.

It almost, almost brought to mind a story book of sorts, tingling in the back of his memory something he's read ages ago, or perhaps even read to another in that past time, but then the fog came rushing in as the massive creature opened its huge mouth.

A low rumble noise, exhale as its eyes squinted, massive fangs and teeth shining with drool in the light, slowly closing back again as one huge paw rose to rub at its face, its shut eye, and the giant shook its head, eyelids drooping drowsily as its yawn left it.

For another brief absurd moment, Wilson had to fight the urge in copy, a yawn tugging in the back of his throat.

And then the trees groaned, bent in protest once again, the great creature slowly dropping back down, only the faint impression of its back, bristled fur and frayed knitted cloth, shiny massive buttons and rough seams, and then another rumbling exhale as that, too, faded below the trees. The ground shook, for just a moment, harsh and almost enough to throw him off balance, but Wilson steadied himself against the tree at his side, harsh enough to have bark prick uncomfortably underneath his fingernails, and for a moment as he turned to catch his stolen breath, to look idly upon the tree trunk, he could swear that one of its darkened impression eyes moved.

It blinked at him, as he stared, and then with that there was an influx of the air around him, a massive inhale and even more forceful exhale, and Wilson shook his head and got his feet back under him.

The dream continued on, after all.

The great breathes drew in and out, continued as he walked, the faded path almost completely gone besides faint impressions, packed dirt here and there, empty of scrub grasses or weeds even, the bare imprint of a footprint, cloven, sometimes clawed and dug deep scrawls. Wilson glanced down as he moved, looked behind himself to see the print left behind by his own shoes, just the vaguest of an afterimage, and then he looked forward once more. 

Dreams were the oddest of conductors. He hardly felt surprise, here, and in some foggy way it was as if he knew already what was ahead.

The more empty fields were left behind, the forest of great trees making a come back, but it was obvious that they were not nearly as age old as the place back behind him. These trunks were big, but not massive, not covered in moss or slow vined weeds, cracked bark or the rolling steps made by scrawled roots; no, these were much, much younger. The air itself tasted different, in the vaguest of remembrances that rose in his dream fogged memory, something he could almost grasp a hold upon, but the next moment it slipped away through his fingers and Wilson continued his trek, feeling...empty.

The wind was whipping between the trees now, slow, even, familiar in ways to the previous giants and their great broken breathes, but this did not hold a foreboding air to it. It was warmer, up here, the light turning into oranges and yellows and faint mixed reds as the sun set, sliding through the trees and growing the shadows out in warm highlights. 

It wasn’t nearly as threatening as he knew sunset should be, and Wilson eyed the darkness that grew from the trunks, under dense undergrowth, watchful. For some reason, he was very sure something was staring at him, but there was no hint of a threat and all he felt was the change in the air, autumn’s fall as the air cooled and tasted of hinted ripe harvest, the very grass under his feet coloring orange and brown, fallen leaves bundled as the path suddenly became clear, a pale dirt path swerving here and there, curved, chaotic and yet meandering, mushrooms a variety of colors poking their caps up in bundled bunches here and there.

The very trees and their large trunks changed as well, more and more of the white barked eyes blinking at him, driving away the pines until he felt as if he had been sucked into another forest altogether, undergrowth less and less, more pale networked roots and the falling red, orange leaves twirling by him in the scattered breezes.

The moving breathes gave a differing effect, leaves pulled away and then rushing around him, catching in his hair as he brushed and untangled them out, still walking on a path he knew would take him somewhere, anywhere but here.

Not soon enough, but eventually. His dream was taking him somewhere, and the knowledge of this being such a thing fluttered bright for a moment before dropping back into nothingness, only running on the continued reactions he had to this place.

Ahead seemed to open to a clearing, a smaller one than any he’s seen so far, and Wilson trailed a hand over one of the white barked tree trunks as he walked out from the shade of the trees into the dipping sunlight. 

Another great breath, sucked in deep and then heaved outwards in a low, almost exhausted exhale, and he found himself staring up at the giants resting place.

Here the mushrooms were more crowded, green and red and blue, scattered and yet mobbed, piles of leaves everywhere, some larger than others, more leaves loosened from the surrounding trees just to join the mess on the forest floor. Hints of other pieces, poking, jutting from the piles, scattered among the mushrooms, sometimes stacked high to lean against the white trunks of the trees in messy hoards, were the porcelain and glass of dishes of varying sorts.

Wilson stared at the teapots, casserole dishes and pots and pans, tea cups here and there, some stacked and others upside down, little plates set just so underneath them. The white of porcelain was only marred by pastel flowers, painted green vines and silly little spirals, simple little designs on each one. He avoided stepping upon them, a part of him itching to take one in hand and to turn over, examine carefully for a hint to what this was, but then another rustling heavy breath of air washed over him and Wilson looked up to what occupied the middle of the clearing. 

The giant slept on, leaving him unnoticed, massive bristly back rising, huge head tucked low, paws curled close, its clothing hanging off it in an almost unbuttoned state, one overall strap having slid from its shoulder and hanging limp, sweater arms rolled up to what was its elbows, the bottom having loosened from being tucked away, and its next breath was deep, the inhale whipping and tugging at his own clothing before heaved away, bracing his feet against the overwhelming force. Its little ears twitched, fur bristled in a massive mane about its neck, black and white and salt peppered, surrounded by mushrooms and leaves and the scattered mess of priceless dishes, stacked plates and leaning towers of bowls, this giant’s hoard of treasures.

For a moment he stood there, watched the creature as it continued to sleep, the stillness of the air marred by its warm breath, the harvest breeze and the cool air, the dying light.

And then he whipped his head around to back behind him, the sudden wailing of noise, the buggled call that echoed forth from where he has journeyed from.

The dream carried the sound, as if from afar, back the way he had come, and the image of the first monster, that great deer full of rot and black ice and snow, rose in his mind.

His remembrance was cut short by a low answering rumble.

Wilson hesitated a moment, the instinct to run marred by dream fog and the heavy weight in his limbs, and when he slowly turned his head to look the giants great eyes were open.

Orange and gold rimmed, flecks of green, red, massive pupils thronged with white, dark pupils that stared unwavering at him, unfazed. The creature itself made no move, breathed steady as the call of before faded into a bad memory, and those eyes kept him still, observing him.

Wilson stared back for the longest of times, unsure, foggy.

It was the sunlights dying rays that finally made a difference, dropping, the dark of the sky becoming halved, purple and blues rising with the shine of stars to overtake the sun as it slipped to the horizon, and those huge eyes blinked at him, slow, thoughtful almost, before sliding shut for good.

It exhaled an almost sigh, heaved air from its massive lungs, its black nose and maw, the hint of fangs in black and pink lips, and the badger giant turned its head and tucked itself away, ignorant of its hanging clothing.

The dark encroached, grew swift, but it was not true darkness. The stars shown, the moon absent, and Wilson found himself standing there without a thought in the world as his dream overcompensated itself.

In the back of his mind, there was a nostalgic relief. Looking upwards, eyeing the shine of stars, something he hasn’t seen for such a long time, he’s almost forgotten it and the blurry vision of the dream made sure to indicate that he was close to that forgetfulness, but for now in this giants lair he could take his own breath and stare up at a starlit sky.

It was all in his head, but the sight allowed lucidity and at least his dreams, even when corrupted by this place, were at the very least kind. He may never see his home sky again, lit up by stars as people he once knew, so long ago, pointed the lines and names of each one out to him, telling him stories he only half knew anymore. At least he had the saddening knowledge that his subconscious remembered it all, even if now the stars grew blurry and out of focus, were to slowly grow dark.

Wilson has been here too long, both dream and otherwise, and he knew this all too well.

The giants slow, even breath broke through again, swamping him with the fog of the dream once more, and Wilson turned his gaze back down to the darkened expanse of the giants porcelain hoard. He took one last glance around, eyeing the mushrooms with their faint glows, the scattering leaves and their piles, the white barked eyes that watched him upon the trees, the sleeping creature itself, tucked and warm and content.

And then he turned away, feet already moving, walking away, the path taking him elsewhere once more. 

The end of the dream day did not create a means to an end. There was always more.

When he awoke, after ages of traversing a foggy landscape ever sliding into dust, Wilson felt exhaustion in his bones and no memory of the dream in mind. His bone talons scraped together, blackened cold palms, and looking down upon them in bed Wilson felt the vaguest form of missing something, in the back of his mind.


	2. Is this a dagger which I see before me

A dream came to him one night, long before passing the portals, long before even the knowledge of such portals became known to him. Winters were cold, dark. Long dragging seasons end, and Wilson suffered through them as best as he could, fighting for every step, every breath, every waking moment in the ice and frost of the cruel world, this dark shadow infested existence.

It took him all too long, to drift off in the worn thin blankets he had made an attempt at making, his claws and ice cold palms too numbed, shaky to stitch and sew evenly, but rabbit fur was better than none and curling up underneath them, shivering in the cold of his tent, sagging under the snow falls buildup, Wilson trembled and shook and tried to not let himself hope for much else in the morning.

Hope, he has found, seemed to make his degrading luck go out even faster. It was sheer force of will that kept him fighting on, but as the encroaching shadows, those watching from the darkness of the night, the faint whiff of tobacco or glowing bright eyes blinking at him from the dark outside his meager campfire, as it all started to collapse upon him this winter was becoming a season of suffering.

Did he ever use to enjoy falls end, the holidays of winter celebrated all around him? Wilson couldn't remember anymore, and he didn't think he ever would. For now, alone, cold and hungry and knowing the worst was still to come, all he knew was that his dislike of it was only ever steadily growing.

Sleep took him none too gently, cold and uneven, and his dowsing lethargy drifted into something more concrete, a drift of almost peaceful rest.

At least, until the dream fog swept in and Wilson found himself in the dark.

But, not quite. There was a glow, from an indescribable, unseeable source, faint, a pale yolk acid that almost seemed to hum in his ears with the faintest of sound, an almost breath. In and out, quiet like, the soft exhale and inhale, this breathing, as if the dark and its glow swelled and then shrunk all about him, and it was not warm nor cold but the feeling of compactness, closeness, almost claustrophobic settled into his chest, his lungs, his head.

His dream self was not bothered by it, however; in fact, Wilson perhaps felt himself relax. He was too used to the harshness of reality, and the vision of darkness playing before him lit no match to what he has suffered, to what he continued to suffer through.

There was no echo with his footsteps, no sound, a void of emptiness yet ringing with the almost vibration of his movements, as if he was rippling a disturbance into this empty nether. The way the dark melted about him, this indescribable glow that filled wherever his sight landed, a dark amber faint with glitter sand, dust molecules he'd raise his hand to and watch unblemished skin, soft fingers give away to the air debris, it all gave off a feeling of unreality his dream softened mind was still trying to grasp.

Something drew him forward, not a call or path but yet his feet moved underneath him, stepping into the dark, through it, becoming it. All was same, no difference besides the trails of wavering dust particles he left behind, and it nearly felt an eternity, a forevermore as he walked, as he continued walking.

And then, suddenly, finally, there was a sound. 

It was faint, fluttered, shifting and then an outburst of movement, rough and fast and almost buzzing, the soft hiss of texture to air. Slowly Wilson turned his head, the dream fog leaving him far hesitant, in the way of olden trees, in the way that, sometimes, if he listened too hard he could swear that the tree guards would talk amongst each other, whisper needle thin about him, old groggy chants thrummed in the earth of their roots, and those self same roots, tarred black and tainted, would curl their way someday straight to his heart, eat him alive in the way of withering shadows.

The sound led his slow steps, the amber acid glow keeping to his eyes, his feet, sickly almost as he continued, but the ambience of the dark did not change, the light did not change, the dust in every breath did not change. His dream led him on, coerced his interest, and with his eyes down Wilson almost missed his first sighting of the heart of the world.

But then the noise started again, a startlingly violent sound almost, stopping when he lifted his head, and Wilson stood and squinted his eyes, staring upon that which he had been sung to.

The birdcage was simple, gold that flaked and curled, black iron peeking from underneath, a plain ornate thing that caught his eye upon it and thus kept it there. Yet it wasn't quite its craftsmanship that truly captured his interest.

Instead, it was the bird inside the cage that had his intrigue, his curiosity, and Wilson took another step forward, tilted his head as he looked on.

It was small, hidden by the bars of the cage, but he could see feathers, dark and grey and oddly fogged, the flutter of wings and the tap, tap of its clawed feet as it hopped about, the odd shine of its eye flashing about. As Wilson drew near, its efforts seemed to slow, the dark pit of its eye stopping to watch him, silent. 

There was movement then, sound that stopped his approach, and Wilson looked down upon the cages build, its stand as a slow slithering creep reached his ears.

A big black snake met his eye, staring at him, coiled around the black iron, the crusted gold having all flaked off into a circle at the base. It wasn't quite moving, not in a slow crawl upwards, instead completely still, wrapped tightly about and silent. Its scales shined, in this half light, and its eyes gleamed, a glowing color he couldn't quite see, not really.

It seemed to not particularly care for his presence, and slowly he felt its gaze slide away from him, shift elsewhere. Back up to the cage above it, the slow flick of a dark, thin tongue against the flaking, peeling metal, and once more the void echoed with the bird's fluttering.

It buzzed about the cage, a violent noise as it hit the bars, and still only flashes of grey, black, shown through. Whatever it was, he couldn't see enough to identify it correctly.

Small enough, but there were so many species of birds out there. A hawk could fit in there, or a raven, or something perhaps even more dangerous even. His dream self was unsure, eyeing the flashes of colors, the faint sound of its struggles.

It made no other sound, and the snake underneath did not answer back, ever patient.

A few moments later and the bird settled, the faint harsh panting, vain exhaustion, and Wilson slowly shuffled a little closer. He was mindful of the snake, but it did not even seem to notice him, coiled and still, waiting.

Now that he was close to the cage, he could see a door and its latch. A simple keyhole to loosen it, but no key.

Just as he realized that, Wilson found his gaze being drawn back to the snake.

It flicked its tongue, showed no sign, no hint, and Wilson turned about to look around the void surrounding him and this fixture of the world.

Emptiness, an empty glow and the dust motes, nothing else. Nothing to indicate a key.

At least, until he decided to check his pockets. Why he did so, his dream self did not know, but his efforts bore fruit; in his vest was the little bit of dark iron that he was looking for.

It did not gleam in his hands, was dull and faded and almost rusty looking, and he turned it in his hands, a new feeling filling the void.

As if waiting with bated breath, a charged inhale and nothing more. It made him glance around, but there was nothing but him, the bird, and the serpent. 

There was nothing else, nowhere else. For a moment, Wilson hesitated. 

If the bird was to get out, where would it go? And what of the black snake, waiting, poised just outside of the cage?

What of himself?

But, his dreamself had made up its mind, and Wilson took the key in hand and reached for the lock.

More flakes of gold fell at his touch, the struggles inside stilling as he felt both bird and snakes gaze, and as he fit the key inside, jiggling the metal a little for some give, Wilson glanced up through the bars.

A dark eye met his gaze, wide and round, pitch black and empty. No light reflected from it, and yet he could see himself, reflected there in the small trembling pinhole.

The bird, he realized, was shaking.

With that, the lock turned, clicked, and there was the telltale sound of rusted hinges as the cage door swung open.

For a moment, nothing happened. There was darkness inside, the barest hint of light passing through the bars, and Wilson squinted as he tried to take a look.

And then something shot by him, right past his head, a dark shape whipping through the air and away, into the darkness. He turned to try and watch its path, but there was nothing out there, only the swirl of dust and the flutter of a few feathers dusting into nothingness.

A low hiss rose up, and Wilson blinked and suddenly remembered the snake.

It had moved, coiled its head and neck into a tense S shape, watching him now. It eyes glowed faintly, tongue slithering out for a long, flicking moment, and he realized he was much too close for comfort to the creature.

Before he could do anything about it, formulate a plan of any sort, there was a sudden resounding noise.

Indescribable, long and loud and everywhere, and that faint light that glowed all about suddenly was gone.

Wilson blinked, slowed in his dream state, and found himself in a different darkness. There was no outside encompassing glow, no sound at all, in this new place.

Only the faint slides of lighter darkness, as if the outside was sliding through to him, between iron thick bars.

If he raised his arms, Wilson knew he'd meet obstruction.

It was silent, besides the faintest of noises, so very faint.

The flicking of a slit tongue, the slow crawl of scales to metal, and nothing else.

In this dream, Wilson closed his eyes. 

In his cold, frostbitten tent, Wilson woke up groggy, empty stomach cramping and gurgling.

***

His dreams were becoming such odd things as of late. Ever since finding the first portal downwards, really, yet the stink of wormholes and swamps and swarming spiders were thankfully voided while he was asleep.

Wilson felt as if he'd never get the digestive smell of the worms out from his clothing. It thankfully did not follow him in his sleep.

Instead, there was a different air to his dream. Something different, something that only just pricked at his memory of long ago, and Wilson blinked and found himself in a crowd.

Seated, the dark shapes of whispering and giggles, hushed laughter all about him, and down below he could see a ring of light, a blazing beam that roamed the ground below.

Looking up, taking a breath of the odd air, the smell of what his mind supplied to be, of all things, popcorn and peanuts, Wilson could see the curve of fabric upwards. He was in a massive tent.

A low rumble sounded up, accompanied by applause, and his gaze was drawn down again, to the center stage.

A figure stood down below, stiff and tall and dark, and so far up in the audience Wilson could see no features, nothing at all but the fog of dream shadows. The silhouette moved, a sudden dropping bow, and the darkness all around him roared in excitement, all encompassing and thrumming and not at all, not nearly human enough.

They bumped against him, brushing limbs in his space as there was a withering of applause, and after a moment he was nudged too, elbowed into raising his own hands and slowly clapping as well. There was a pleased hum, as Wilson glanced around and saw nothing in the crowd but dark shapes and wide, glowing eyes, and then he quickly glanced back downwards. 

His dream self couldn't stop the sudden understanding, that he shouldn't look elsewhere outside of the stage.

The figure down below now was moving about, grand wide gestures and objects in hand, but Wilson was too far away to truly see what they were. The vague shape of what could possibly be a top hat was raised, spun in the figures hands and rolled about, before reaching well inside, farther than possible and well past the elbow, all the way to shoulder, before whipping out a-

A thing, a dark shape with rough edges, bulbous eyes and huge, tufty ears, and the crowd erupted in cheering and applause, a general feeling of amusement rising. 

Not genuine entertainment; Wilson shifted uncomfortably and heard the faint snide giggles, the mocking of the figure down below as more odd tricks and flashy dramatics continued to be shown.

Slowly but surely, even the laughter seemed to subside, growing quieter the longer the figure below tried to entertain. A few sounds rose, displeasement, boos even, the flicker of arms raising and shaking of fists.

The crowd was growing bored, and from up here Wilson watched as the figure seemed to grow hesitant, raising a hand as if speaking, trying to make excuses as more and more of the show was fumbled, objects dropped and furry critters getting out and racing around. A bit of the crowd had a good laugh, watching as the figure ran about trying to catch the escapees, and Wilson sunk in his seat as the shadowy beings around him started to hum, wither in ways that he did his best at not catching sight of.

The general air of the tent was turning sour, dark, and the beaming light flickering for a moment, stopping the figure from the acts and freezing up. A low grumbled hum, rising, rising, ever rising, and even from here, trying to not look as if he was hiding in his chair and yet failing, Wilson watched as the figure seemed to grow frantic, pacing and waving arms and, even, the faintest of sounds, as if shouting out to the darkness.

And then, it was as if a sudden thought came to the figures mind. All the way up here he could hear the snap of fingers, distinct and sharp, silencing the hum of the crowd, and suddenly the muffle of foggy sound lifted and Wilson could hear-

"For this next trick, I will call upon a volunteer!"

Immediately there was the drowning out of applause and cheering, garbled and wrong and making Wilson clutch his hands to his ears, breaking through dream fog and almost, almost even waking him up, shivering the world into melted color and shapes. 

It died down near immediately afterwards, a rolling drumroll as the figure rose a hand, sweeping over the crowd with finger raised, as if considering carefully.

Wilson could feel the shadows at his sides, his crowded neighbors whispering, their eyes on him, and then suddenly there was the ringing of a bell, a little ditty of a tune as light blazed on above him, and down below the figure was pointing directly up at him and his seat.

For a moment, he was frozen. The crowd wildly rumbled, too many limbs rising up in odd, not quite right way, before hands were suddenly gripping his shoulders and he was tugged, dragged forwards, downwards. The darkness swirled, blank eyes flashing him by and dizzying him, and then just as quickly Wilson had his feet planted in dusty dry ground and the blazing of the lights above.

The figure stood before him, smiling, and not at all like the crowd itself, something other and besides.

The words spoken were deep, echoed, layered as if from very, very far away, and a hand was dramatically gestured towards him, an introducing bow.

"Thank you, pal, for volunteering so quickly! Now, this next bit shouldn't be hard at all."

Still frozen from the suddenness of being handled about and dragged through the shadows of the world, Wilson was still as the figure circled about him, eyeing him almost, before nodding with a hum of approval.

Turning to the waiting audience, the darkness swirling those figures into both looking like shadowed individuals and yet one massive mass of something other, the figure swept up a dramatic pose, voice booming through the tent.

"And now, ladies and gentleman, I shall rise my volunteer up through the air with words alone!"

There was a resounding applause, whispers and yells all about, and Wilson looked up and could suddenly feel every single one of those eyes, the gaze turned so sharply upon himself.

Even in the dream, he felt the sudden knee jerking of anxious terror that accompanied every shadow monstrosities introduction.

The figure twisted around, arms rising and moving in odd hand gestures, and the words were not human, nothing familiar or known but all resounding, all encompassing, deeper than humanly possible and yet even more so, crawling upwards and digging and Wilson couldn't help but squeeze his eyes shut, unable to move, unable to do anything but curl his hands into fists and tremble.

Ever so slowly, there was a change in the air. And then he had the distinct feeling of lacking the ground under his feet.

Wilson couldn't help opening his eyes, and then he was flailing for balance, a half yelp escaping him as he kicking his legs and twisted, and there was the nauseous feeling as he realized he was upside down in the air.

The crowd was watching him, endlessly, and his voice froze in his throat as he stared back at them, caught in something that shivered through the dream and to the waking world.

And then there was laughter, obnoxious cheering and thundering applause, and he was twisting in the air again, the sight of the figure below looking pleased before giving a deep bow.

With a flick of the hand, Wilson was smoothly turned right side up again and then lightly dropped back down to the dust. 

Hs legs just about gave up, a sudden buzzing numbness overtaking him in collapse, but then a hand was on his shoulder and Wilson was forcibly held up, the wide grin of the entertainers face a bit crooked, the faintest of strain hidden away underneath. Words whispered low to him, not for the audience's ears, and the grip on him tightened uncomfortably.

"Keep up, pal. Don't want to be left behind."

The crowd roared their approval, too many eyes to be possible, too many limbs, and the figure stood at his side and continued to wave as Wilson hissed in breath, fought the queasiness in his stomach and the shivering of almost wakefulness catching at him.

All eyes upon him, and he realized he was terrified.

And then the light went out, sound cutting to absolute silence, and Wilson was elsewhere.

He blinked out at the darkness, the vaguest of light, and when he looked about he recognized the tent once more, massive and, now, empty. He was not in his seat, nor in the thick dust below.

He looked down, all the way to the rows upon rows of seats, and realized he was seated on a plank of wood, a beam near the top of the tent ceiling. If he reached up far enough, perhaps he'd even brush the fabric.

There was sound, low creaking noises so far up here, and Wilson could see none of the audience lingering, nothing.

It almost felt as if he was alone.

"I've got to say, haven't had as good of a showing as that in a long while."

Jerking his head up, Wilson looked around frantically before catching sight of the figure before.

This time, it wasn't all buzzing fog shadow.

Glasses glinted from the darkness, and the man had his arms out, balancing as he walked a tightrope, spanning far out into the dark of either side of the tent. In one hand was the top hat; in the other, a bright reddish pink umbrella, open and raised.

"Not many volunteers are as good as you are, pal. Took it like a champ."

The fellow wobbled, as Wilson watched him take another step forward, dark shoes somehow catching to the rope and keeping his balance. It was almost unbearably dangerous looking, but Wilson felt no cause for alarm, his dream easing back now from almost waking up.

He opened his mouth, as if to answer back, but nothing came to mind, empty as nothing escaped him, not even a sound in the dream mist. 

"Keep a will like that and you may even outdo me someday."

Inching forward, closer now, the man finally raised his gaze from the rope, to look directly at Wilson and his lack of voice, words in the dream plane. 

Dark, dark eyes, not the blank white of the audience, but something different, other. The man grinned, and this time it wasn't crooked, wasn't hiding fear or panic; only a soft smile, a tilt of the head, flashing of the glasses to obscure once again. 

With one smooth movement the man raised up the top hat and placed it atop Wilsons head. 

His smile held, grew softer even, and with pitch black eyes the almost fond look seemed particularly unnerving, tilting his head as he swung the umbrella about by the handle carelessly.

"You seem like a good person, pal. Try not to make the same mistakes."

And, with that, the man took the umbrella in hand, turned away, and leapt right off into the darkness.

Even in the dream fog as he was, Wilson jolted as he leaned over the edge, seeking even a hint of what happened.

Nothing was down there, nothing but dark shadow and the empty spotlight, nothing but dust and dark.

Slowly straightening up, Wilson raised a hand and felt the top hat atop his head, bushing up his hair and falling a bit low. Carefully taking it off, minding not to drop it, he eyed the purple silk, the ribbon wrapped about it. 

When he lifted it, to look inside at the emptiness of dark, the little band caught his eye. Written in an elegant curve, almost as dramatic as the man had been down below, was one letter.

'W' 

When Wilson awoke, it was to the stench of leftover worm bile, the salty swamp and the sea spray of the archipelago.

If, perhaps, there was the vaguest scent of tobacco outside his tent, Wilson did not notice it.


	3. A rose by any name would smell as sweet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _‘Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more; it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.’_
> 
> The Constant has entered a new age, and it is a haven thriving with roses.

Not all of his dreams were vastly unreasonable things. 

Long after the inner portal to its five worlds, deep to the heart in its chambers, long after so much and so little, Wilson's dreams changed with the tides.

The Constant was thriving, and now as it snaked into each and every viable mind, waking and asleep, it lost its stagnant touch. The new owner weaved different tales than those of before and the shadow world grew and blossomed more than ever.

As such, nights slept in tents, communal or individual, made the age old empty forests of old, home to towering beasts, fade away.

Those, after all, had crept from the mind of a King; the Queen envisioned a new era, and it was a rose scented heaven.

Still, nights like these where Wilson found himself surrounded by so many others had his sleep a bit different. The tents were not in place just yet, so with a few staying up for watches and everyone else bundling together in the haphazardly expanded tent it took awhile for sleep to fall.

Wilson has slept in far worse situations; there may be a few spidery limbs laying on him, and someone's foot had ended up against his shoulder somehow, but it was better than trying to tie himself to a tree while hounds scratched at the trunk and snapped their jaws in unrestrained hunger.

When he finally drifted off, however, the dreams emerged without further ado. 

It was dark, as always. However, much like the new sky of the rulers decree, faint stars hung overhead, odd patterns crystal clear and far too alien. And, above those even more so, a massive moon, pocket marked, streaked and holed and ageless.

Wilsons stared up at the stars, but they shimmered and grew brighter the longer he watched, pulsing almost, the shadows of the world through its very veins as the moon watched him in much the same, fat and heavy, and finally he tore his gaze away. There was nothing there familiar, nothing there comforting. 

All eyes, shiny white crystal eyes, a missive from one great eye to the next, and nothing more. Even in dream fog, Wilson did not want to look upon them any longer.

A darkened forest had risen around him, silhouettes of half known images, and the grass under his feet was damp but he noticed little else. The air was muffled here, far more than he could recognize, and every breath was lukewarm, filling his lungs yet not quite.

It made him feel unbalanced, lucidity peeling away, and the blackness of the trees, smooth dark shadow and little else, finally broke apart as light flickered through them.

Firelight, Wilson knew, staring out at the yellow and orange hints that danced even more shadow all about him, and not even a moment past before his feet started him forward. The light drew him, a low hum that settled heavy in his spine, dragging his feet as he walked on, but nothing stopped him as he wove past the trees.

No entwining roots, no thick brush or stringy vines; it was dirt and grass, and a stuffy air that was slowly loosening the nearer he drew, and Wilson walked past many tree trunks, dark indescribable things, smooth and straight and as if drawn and not grown, created and not thrown to the winds.

The trees did not lean to his own movements, and for the long walk, starkly in his dream mumbled mind, Wilson felt the most insignificant of all.

The fire grew brighter, bigger the closer he approached, and finally as he rounded about one cold hewn tree, massive and neither pine nor birch, Wilson looked upon a rather small clearing. Trees ringed around it, nothing else besides big black things shining from the firelight, and the fire itself was silent. No logs stood out among the flames, no charcoal or grasses, only fire, and the rocks encircling it. 

Wilson watched the fire a moment, the circle pit made of too smooth rocks, round and perfect, the flames barely rising or flickering, the barest of embers, and then he took those last few steps forward and sat down, criss crossing his legs.

The flames withering, almost excited before dying back to a normal state, and Wilson found himself sitting, breathing in clearer air away from all the trees, and waited.

The stars overhead blinked away, the great moon watching patiently, silence of the fire and its black forest, and he didn't know how long he sat, just as silent, before finally footsteps approached.

Darkness, a figure of fuzz and muffle and buzzing static, emerging from the trees with slow steps. The vaguest of motions, the tilt of the head as he looked over, and then he was joined by the fire with a slow exhale, crooked and crackling, as if to make up for the fires silence. Long hair jostled next to him, almost too close but not really, and then it was quiet once again.

Dark shadowy hands raised up, went to the fire, and then in, letting the flames curl about dream fogged fingers, and Wilson watched idly as they both waited.

The next was louder, tromping through the forest with an air of near panic, fear thick in the air as someone much larger burst away from the trees. Deep inhales, exhales, and Wilson watched along with the shadow beside him, flames still curling over offered hands, his own clasped in his lap.

Those steps were heavy things, a heaved sigh of near incomprehensible mumbling, and now the fire had three about it.

The noise beside him, mouthpiece of the flames silence, hummed and crackled, a grumble like a great beasts belly rising halfway in answer.

Wilson stayed silent, though his eyes turned away from the fire to his hands, and he was fiddling with them now.

His vision showed him skin, unmarked and unblemished, only the barest of leftover scar tissue now.

But when he dragged his fingers together, there was the unmistakable catch of talons, bone claws clicking together, and with a shiver Wilson turned his eyes away from the duality, back to the fire.

He knew, as the rest did, that more were to come. The firepit, having looked so small and providing when he had first arrived, alone, was now much bigger, rounder, more rocks to its mass. 

The flames glowed, and more footsteps approached.

Light, hesitant, and this time followed. The buzz of static, numbing, and the faint glow trailing behind a small form, and without hesitation the campfire had a new occupant. 

The glow moved about them, mindful, and Wilson watched it as it drifted close, as if to look upon him before it retreated back.

He was starting to gain the faintest forms of deja vu, tickling the back of his subconscious. 

Another pair joined, the loud dragging scraping of metal to metal, clanging and hissing, spitting steam that warped and wobbled in wrong directions. Weaving steps, sputtered light, and then easing down to a crouch that fell to a sit with a rumbled thump, and the firepit ever expanded to accommodate.

The next was slower, plodding, hesitance at catching sight of them all, and Wilson for once caught the semblance through the shadows, glinting of harsh square glasses, before there was ambling over and a sighed low sitting, the soft sound of old bones resting.

The trees made no answer as another approached, sparks of a dragged blade leaving not even a trace of scarring, and Wilson watched wide eyed as another buzzing form sat down, holding to the shadow cleared form of an axe, red and silver and whistling low tunes to the winds.

The next was a faster run, skidding to a halt and shifting defensive, aggressive, before air was sucked in between crooked teeth and remembrance swept in. The spear in hand was loosened, not raised in attack, and then swept up with ease as the fire let in another to sit together, another shadow form to join the line up.

Clicking, chirping and hissing, scuttled about from the trees and then sliding down, and the glow that hovered near the fire pulled away to shed light about the newcomer. 

Too many eyes, Wilson realized, blinking as he sat up straighter and felt that minor thrill of almost fear, tingling as it tried to wake him, before the glow drew away and hesitant, small feet brought the new shadow closer.

Small, and shaking, and then scooting to the fire and huddling close to the others, including himself. Wilson eyed it, and it eyed him back.

Before it reached out a hand, flashing shadow bristled claws and then little pudgy fingers, and after a moment he met it half way.

His vision swam, with his own fingers flashing to bone talons, clasped lightly to spider claws and then small, all too small little hands.

The fire pulsed high, still no fuel visible insides its depths and with that both he and the newcomer pulled away as the stones multiplied, as more space grew around them.

More to come, his dreamself acknowledged, and Wilson put his flesh hands, feeling the jagged bones as his eyes lied, back to his lap.

There was a low hum, silence yet not, heavy with almost words as smooth steps, quickened and then leaps, burst from around the trees, dancing about them all as they watched. Wilson's eyes followed the shadows twirling, bowing and leaning and jumps, before finally halting with an elegant last spin and falling into a sit at the fire.

Hands moved, easy and free, and he felt when he was looked upon, blinking at the tilt and the hands that rose up, patted his shoulders and moved as if like dusting him off. There was no face, in the darkness, but silent words rose and fell with the fire and Wilson had the distinct feeling he knew this one.

And then the hands pulled back, a polite little nod, and the fire brightened and shone, but little else.

There was, Wilson realized, only one spot left, next to him. A completion of the circle, the line up.

Minutes passed, or perhaps seconds, eternity before that last pair approached to join them. 

The shadow form was scribbled, low static black and white, then swirling into the fuzz like the others, a soft and then rough sketch as hesitance held and the fire called and Wilson watched, along with all the others.

Out on the outskirts, as silence stretched, long thin tendrils were forming, reaching. From here, he could see them creep forward, curl and seek out, sharp thorns grown out and turn ever sharper, vines growing all about them. 

The newcomer glanced around at the invasion, encircling them all, and finally took those last few steps forward and slunk down next to Wilson, hands clasped and hunched over, looking to the fire and nowhere else.

Curling about the firelights outreaches, Wilson could see petals of darkness, stretching and then shaping, finally unfurling into crimson red blooms. All around them the bristled thorns surrounded, creeping and then blossoming, red hued and strong.

Their fire, having been so strong for so long, flickered and slowly drew back into itself.

Wilson felt a prod at his side, and looked to see the first who had arrived, watching him. The vague form of a hand reached out, and as the light started to fade, as the fire started to die and the thorns started to creep closer, Wilson did not hesitate in reaching out and grabbing firm.

A moment of silence, stillness, and then the others followed suit, reaching to each hand and then holding, all about the circle until it came right back around to him. Wilson hesitated this time, and so did the other, as blooms crowded all around them, as darkness closed in, and then they both reached out and met halfway, grabbing tight.

The last of the flames went out, with a silent, near nonexistent poof of curled smoke.

It was dark again, only the starlight eyes in the sky, the massive judgement of the alien moon, and Wilson held still, as crawling vines and thorns brushed up against him, curled close and encompassing. He did not let go of either hand in his grip, and neither did they.

From far away, out through the dark tree trunks, Wilson could swear that there were more lights out there, more fires flickering out and away from them. They had no more, but they could still see, all of them, and look out into the forest they all did.

Roses bunched up against him, crawled over his lap and about his shoulders with pricking thorns, and Wilson closed his eyes.

When he awoke it was to hustle and bustle outside the tent, people rushing about and fixing, making, sometimes breaking things. The glow of Abigail hovered outside the sagging tent door, glancing over at him as he scrubbed the sleep from his eyes, mindful of his claws, and Webber mumbled light spider sound from where they still slept, curled up next to him.

They would need more tents, Wilson realized, as he stretched and winced at the soreness of his back. Felt as if someone had ended up laying on him last night, which probably wasn't too far from the truth. And more blankets, just to try and soften up sleeping for a bit.

He remembered no dream last night, and thus did not waste time thinking about it. Just outside there was a yelp and then loud laughter, harsh cursing, the flash as Wes raced by the tent with shadow clones following close behind, dark swords in hand. Abigail billowed, glowed, giving him a last long look before drifting away out of sight.

Webber chirped in their sleep, and Wilson heaved a sigh. Time to get a move on. He'd not get anything done if he slept all the time. 

There were no answers in dreams, after all.


End file.
